


Perché non muori?

by renawitch



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Crusades, Death, Enemies, Killing Each Other, Swordfighting, Swords, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27161828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renawitch/pseuds/renawitch
Summary: Nicky and Joe meet for the first time during the Crusades - as enemies on different sides of the conflict between Christians and Muslims
Kudos: 7





	Perché non muori?

**Author's Note:**

> as always the warning: English is not my mother tongue

This was a never-ending nightmare and Nicolo was completely at the end of his rope.  
The battle for Jaffa had been over since late afternoon. The city had fallen to the Christians hours ago. All Saracens long since driven out or murdered.  
The pain between his ribs throbbed incessantly, almost robbing him of the air he could breathe. Blood soaked the formerly white robe to such an extent that the red sign of the cross could hardly be made out. The wound that the Saracen warrior's sword had made after piercing Nicolo's left breast just above his heart sent pulsating waves of agonising pain through his body.  
The knight closed his eyes in despair and groaned in exhaustion as his opponent stirred again on the ground.  
"Perché non muori e basta?"  
He laboriously lifted his sword once more while the warrior at his feet began to rise.  
Why did he not die? Several hits of his sword should have sent his opponent to certain death. Nicolo had severed his main arteries several times during the hours of battle, piercing his heart with his blade, slitting his throat and finally even throwing him down a slope, but whatever he did, the Saracen simply did not die. Again and again he rose up and took up the fight against the crusader again.

The first death, in the middle of the raging battle, was the worst.  
Nicolo could hardly believe that after such a blow, which severed the Saracen's artery in his right leg from the groin to the middle of his thigh, his opponent still fought back to his feet and raised his sword against him again.  
A blow across the chest and a deep cut through the throat brought the warrior to his knees. After a few moments he fell dead to the side and into the hot sand.  
While life was draining from the eyes of his enemy, Nicolo was already turning to the next enemy.  
The sudden blow from behind into his right flank, between the arch of the ribs and the hip, hit him completely unprepared. The actual pain overwhelmed him with overwhelming force as the Saracen drew back his sword and began the bleeding.  
Nicolo broke to his knees with a hoarse gasp, writhing in agony, his left hand pressed against the gaping wound, staring stunned at the bright blood that instantly gushed from between his fingers. Every breath hurt, almost bringing tears to his eyes.  
The winner's leather boots entered his field of vision. So this was the end. The sword slipped from his powerless hand.  
"Finiscilo", he brought out, laboriously whispering and halting.  
He breathed heavily and rattled, lowering his head in resignation and closing his eyes while kneeling at the feet of his enemy, waiting for the death he would now give him.  
Instead, he felt a blade almost gently touch his throat, forcing him now to raise his head up to look up at his conqueror.  
How could this be possible? Did the speeches of the priests come true and was the enemy really in league with the devil? Had he crossed swords with the devil?  
Dark eyes looked at him with unmistakable horror and complete confusion. Boundless hatred was written on the bronze face of the warrior Nicolo had just killed.  
The knight frowned stunned, opened his lips in horror, took a painful, trembling breath and whispered haltingly:  
"Be do?"  
The Saracen softly growled something in his language, which Nicolo did not understand, turned sideways and kicked him in front of his chest with such force that the knight, coughing in agony, remained lying on his back at the feet of his enemy.  
Even before Nicolo was able to take another rattling breath, a new, cruel pain flashed through his right shoulder. His opponent drove the Saracen sword through his flesh deep into the ground, nailing him to the ground, almost immobile. The flaming pain that set in as the Saracen turned the blade in the wound was almost impossible to describe. Nicolo cried out in agony before the Saracen's dagger fell on his chest and robbed him of his senses.

That he was right in his assumption that the pagans were in league with the devil became clear to him when he awoke on the battlefield with a panicky breath, but physically completely unharmed.  
At first he looked around confused and afraid.  
How was that possible? The dagger had not missed his heart, even the wound the warrior had inflicted on his flank was without a doubt fatal. Nevertheless, he found himself back on the battlefield completely unharmed.  
Had this devil denied him a quick death and entry into the realm of blessings? Did the blood of the Saracen stain Nicolo's soul so much that perhaps even God Himself denied him paradise?  
He felt betrayed. Maliciously robbed of the heavenly gardens by witchcraft and enemy cunning.  
An unbelievable rage boiled up inside him, made him clench his fist and grab his sword, which still lay beside him.  
The warrior, more likely to be a demon or other creature from hell, fought with a knight and turned his back on Nicolo.  
In a single, flowing movement he rose. With two quick steps he covered the distance between himself and the Saracen, grabbed his shoulder with his left hand and pulled him back brutally. In the next moment they faced each other again, mustered each other full of painstakingly suppressed hatred and began the dance anew.

He died this first death a few hours ago.  
In the meantime, under a full moon, the night had long since arrived. Nicolo was unable to say how many times he had killed the Saracen. Fifteen, maybe twenty times?  
How many times had he himself been killed by the hand of his enemy? It did not become clear to him either, but slowly a dark, cruel feeling began to make its way to the surface of his serene façade.  
Fear.  
How often would he die at the hands of this man? In what other ways and means?  
Stabbed, bled to death, beaten to death with a stone, the Saracen had broken his neck and finally, after Nicolo had thrown himself into the neighbouring gorge with him in raging despair, drowned him in the gurgling river down there.  
Each of these deaths was painful, gruesome, full of horror and more than gruelling. Waking up each time was like a true ordeal of confusion, panic, pain and dizziness.  
Just as he himself pulled out all the stops to finally kill his opponent once and for all, the latter did not give up either, and after a short time it was clear to the men that they would have to be almost equal in battle.  
Both could barely stand on their feet. In the end this fight took its exhausting toll on them. How many times were they able to return, wake up, fight and die?

The warrior in front of him came to his feet almost silently. Quickly, fluently and deftly, he stood up again and took a deep breath.  
Nicolo sighed melancholically, closed his lids for a moment and raised his sword once more.  
The Saracen did not move.  
Nicolo dared to take a few more cautious steps towards his opponent, but he still made no attempt to respond to the obvious provocation.  
Suspiciously, the knight frowned, tried to see more of the Saracen's details in the moonlight and took another step, only to pause in surprise.  
The shadow now crouched. The warrior sat down on the ground in front of him and crossed his legs.  
Questioningly, Nicolo tilted his head. What was that about? A new tactic perhaps? Even a trap?  
In the bright moonlight the knight could see that the Saracen shook his head emphatically and said something softly in Arabic.  
Nicolo did not understand a word, but the warrior's voice did not seem hostile, but calm and exhausted. The next moment, a clanging noise made the knight startle and, full of concern, he retreated a few steps back.  
The Saracen continued to speak calmly and softly in his strange language and laughed mockingly. Then he raised both hands to show them to Nicolo and silently told him to follow his gaze.  
The sword! He had thrown it away. It was far out of his reach and shimmered with a cold glow in the moonlight.  
Nicolo's disbelieving gaze wandered back to the face of his enemy, who now slowly and thoughtfully put both hands on his knees in front of him.  
The knight hesitantly lowered his sword in astonishment, but remained extremely cautious and tense as he carefully laid his weapon on the ground.  
The heathen smiled softly and nodded approvingly.  
Step by step, Nicolo approached him again, watching him suspiciously, but he also sat down on the ground opposite the Saracen and took a deep, uneasy breath.  
Again the other spoke Arabic, but quickly realised that Nicolo did not seem to understand and nodded again.  
Slowly he brought his right hand to his chest, placed it on his heart and said clearly:  
"Yusuf Al-Kaysani"  
The knight truncated confused. Had the heathen just told him his name?  
He followed a strange intuition when he did the same, put the right hand on his heart and replied:  
"Nicolo di Genova"

They looked at each other. Two strangers in the night. Equal to each other. Opponents, mortal enemies, who had killed each other in all kinds of senseless ways in the last hours.  
If they had not been able to kill the other during the past hours, it made no sense to keep trying.  
If war did not work, perhaps they should try it with cooperation.

***** ***** ***** *****

Perché non muori e basta - why don't you just die?

Finiscilo - Finish it

Sei tu? - you?


End file.
